


Nice

by yespolkadot_kitty



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Cooking fic, Fluff, Jaskier cares for the big bad Witcher, Jaskier has some impure thoughts, M/M, don't write a ballad about this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22135699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yespolkadot_kitty/pseuds/yespolkadot_kitty
Summary: Jaskier does something nice for the big, bad Witcher.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 27
Kudos: 740
Collections: Best Geralt, GERALT AND JASKIER ARE FUCKING GAY





	Nice

“....the fuck. You're cooking?”

Jaskier turned to see Geralt in the doorway, dripping with blood (not necessarily his own), smelling of a cross between a heap of dung and woodsmoke. It was less unpleasant than expected, probably because after all this time, Jaskier had become used to the Witcher’s habit of smelling like fire and death. That he found those scents comforting should probably have been a concern.

He stirred the stew on the stove. “Well, hello to you too. Good day at the market?”

Geralt opened the huge satchel slung over his shoulder, took out the head of something with six eyes (all closed, thankfully), and dumped it on the table. “Chance encounter with a gargoyle. Should net us enough coin for a few more nights off the road”

Jaskier swallowed and looked away. “Well, I’m guessing after killing that, you aren’t hungry.”

Geralt glanced over at the stove and grunted, which Jaskier interpreted as  _ I could eat. _

“Had the innkeeper run a bath hotter than the sun, just how you like it, you know, if you’re interested,” he said over his shoulder.

“Hmmm.”

Jaskier interpreted  _ that _ as  _ why yes I am, thank you, you brilliant bard. _

The Witcher strode into the adjoining room - this was by far the nicest and largest inn they had stayed at for some time - and Jaskier tasted the lamb stew on the stove as he heard the sounds of armour and doublets and leather and weapons being quickly divested.

He would not think about Geralt sinking naked into the water, the rippling surface lapping at the delineated muscles of his stomach. He would not think about Geralt making that  _ hmmmm _ noise that he made whilst he scrubbed his skin free of monster stench. And he especially would  _ not _ think, at all, even for a moment, about Geralt standing up in the water, all clean and shiny and smelling of the lemony soap he carried about in his pack, because “most inn soap smells of  _ arse, _ Jaskier.”

No. He wouldn’t think about any of those things.

The stew he’d made was ready and he unceremoniously dumped the six-eyed head back into the Witcher’s canvas bag and kicked it across the room, then laid the table with what little he had, dropping a few nicely shaped twigs and wildflowers into a chipped jug. He eyed it critically, then huffed at himself. “As if Geralt gives two hoots.”

“As if I give two hoots about what?”

Jaskier looked up to see the imposing figure of the Witcher back in the doorway to the bathing room-cum-bedroom, monster hunter casual in a faded, fraying linen undershirt and breeches. His hair looked slightly wild, a ghostly pale tumble around his face of planes and angles. The light from five flickering candles lined up on the ageing mantlepiece caught on the gold in Geralt’s eyes and for a moment, Jaskier’s chest hurt to look at him.

“Oh you know. That you wouldn’t be particularly interested in the ambience I’m creating here, with my mismatched candles, twigs, wildflowers and chipped jug.”

Geralt strode over to the table and looked down at the arrangement. A strange expression passed over his face for just a flash. 

“It’s been a long time,” he rumbled, at length. “Since anyone did this for me.”

Jaskier blinked, unused to so many words coming out of the Witcher’s mouth at one time. “Er… twigs and cracked jugs?”

Geralt huffed in an amused manner. “Effort, bard. Since anyone made even a paltry effort on my behalf.” He sat down in one of the old wooden chairs. Amazingly, it did not break until the weight of his heavily muscled form. “It’s…. Nice.”

“Oh. Well.” Jaskier served up the stew, turning away so the Witcher wouldn’t see the blush he could feel spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. Was this the first time, perhaps ever, the other man had paid him a compliment? He could write a ballad about this. No, ten ballads.

“Bard,” Geralt said mildly when they were both seated, each reaching to break the coarse bread Jaskier had procured from the local bakehouse.

“Yes, Geralt?”

“Don’t write a song about this.”

And Jaskier didn’t. At least, not one he sung to anyone except himself.

  
  



End file.
